Couldn't Risk It
by with-the-klutch
Summary: Takes place after The Riechenbach Fall. John Watson believes that Sherlock Holmes has fallen, but little does he know, Sherlock is waiting in the wings, and is soon to return. I do not own any part of BBC's Sherlock.


"You told me once that you weren't a hero… um… there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and human… human being I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that's… uh. There. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!" John Watson laid his hand on the grave of Sherlock Holmes, his best friend and partner in (solving) crime. Grief washed over him, and his feelings were too much to bear. He felt the familiar pain in his leg throbbed at him, and as John turned to leave, he was unable to stop the limp that now handicapped him, and would, he feared, from now on.

Sherlock Holmes watched from the graveyard's mausoleum. He had been too far to catch every word, but he had heard the John's final request. _Soon, John_, he thought. _But not yet. _In addition to eavesdropping on attempting to eavesdrop on his own memorial from John and Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had been observing. He was, after all, the great Sherlock Holmes, blessed and cursed with the power of seeing. He had seen everything, from the way Mrs. Hudson, always so collected and patient, had let her frustrations be revealed beside his grave, to John's returning limp. Sherlock knew very well that the limp was a figment of John's mind, brought on by stress and trauma, and he flinched as he realized that, unlike the first time he had seen the limp, the source was not John's time served in the warzone. Rather, it was the apparent death of Sherlock. Sherlock wished that he could go to John, his beloved friend, and tell him everything. Tell him how he had to fake his death, or he would have had to face the very real death of John. Sherlock's arch nemesis, Jim Moriarty, had hired trained assassins to murder John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and inspector Lestrade, if Sherlock did not carry out his suicide. The assassins had also been told not to abort the mission unless given the word b Moriarty. Sherlock had been confident that he would be able to convince Moriarty to do so, but an unexpected complication; Jim Moriarty had emptied a bullet into his brain, killing himself and making it virtually impossible to call off the killers. Sherlock had no choice. He would have to comply with Moriarty's sadistic requests and commit suicide; or at the very least, _fake it._ He knew the risk he was taking. The media would surely turn on him, calling him a fraud and a phoney in his exploits. Not to mention the trauma that he would provide the few in his life that cared deeply about him. And coming back would certainly not be easy. But those were risks he was willing to take; he would not risk John's life. With a final glance towards John's disappearing silhouette, he too left the graveyard.

"Have they found it yet?" Molly turned towards the source of the voice. Sherlock stood before her, his face an expressionless mask.

"The phone?" Molly asked. "No, I don't think so; they're still reeling from Moriarty's suicide." Sherlock nodded slightly. He could not come back until he could be proven innocent of fraud; the media would not accept it, and they would have him in cuffs before the day was out. Upon realizing that his death would be a possibility, he had recorded Moriarty's confession of his master plan on his phone, and after calling John to buy time for his homeless network to assemble and ensure John would be unable to reach the body, he had thrown his phone to the side. He hoped someone would find it, and he would soon be able to come back from the grave, as it were. Molly and Sherlock stood in silence for a moment, before she turned back to her work.

"You were watching him again, weren't you?" Molly asked quietly. She was currently the only person who knew that Sherlock had survived; after all, she had assisted him with it. Sherlock had been staying at her flat, and she had come to understand Sherlock more in the last few weeks than she had ever.

"Yes," Sherlock said curtly. "I don't think he understood my message at all. John Watson, always the seer, but never the observer." Molly shook her head, a scornful smile playing at her lips.

"He watched his best friend jump from a building; give him some credit if he wasn't paying attention to what you were saying." She scolded. Sherlock shot her a look of condescension that only he could give.

"I told him that it was m note, I practically screamed that the phone was my note," Sherlock muttered in frustration. Molly knew that she was close to losing him; soon he would enter his Mind Palace, pick up her battered old violin (which, since moving in to Molly's flat, he had mentioned several times that it was ;out of tune') and begin to play, probably for hours.

Molly sighed. "I'll hint to Lestrade that I think there is something more on the roof," she conceded. She then reached forward and touched Sherlock's face, causing him to flinch and look at her as if she had been planning to plant a bomb right there on his cheek. Again, she shook her head, a small laugh emanating from her lips. "You'll see him soon Sherlock. Soon this will all be over, and you can go back to 221b Baker Street, and you can ignore me again, and annoy Lestrade and solve crimes with John and everything will be right again. You'll see." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but before he had the chance Molly had picked up her keys and headed out the door. After closing the door behind her she paused, and after a moment of waiting, as if on cue, she heard the familiar sound of a violin, followed by, "This bloody thing is out of tune."

Three weeks had gone by since he had faked his suicide, and Sherlock Holmes was bored. Molly had given him strict rules that he couldn't keep human body parts at her flat, so he couldn't experiment. She had also told him that there were to be no firearms, which left Sherlock completely and utterly bored. He found the only was reread John's old entries on his blog. He watched as the hit counter continued to increase, yet there were no posts. He felt again the familiar pang of sadness as he thought about his friend. So many a night had Sherlock watched John type away at his computer, slowly, one finger on a key at a time, recounting the tales of their many adventures together. His eyes flickered to his coat, hanging by the door. By now, all of London would know his face, would have read in the tabloids that the great Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. Going out of the flat was not an option. Sherlock could not be seen. He was dead. So then why was putting on his coat, grabbing a hat and heading out the door? For the first time in his life, Sherlock was allowing his irrational and illogical mind to conquer. He was never one for emotions, but he was filled with a sudden surge of two quite specific ones: love and hopeless longing. He pulled his collar up and his hat down, hailing a cab. Sherlock felt a pang of apprehension as one arrived; from experience, he knew how dangerous cabbies could be. After a moment's pause and a thorough deduction of the vehicle and its' driver, he got in.

There was no hesitation in his voice as he said, "221b Baker Street."


End file.
